


A Game at Sea

by MischiefJoKeR



Series: Jimlock Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Captain Moriarty, Games, M/M, Pirate Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pirate!lock prompt from lifeleftmehere on tumblr</p><p>Sherlock and first-mate John Watson aren't expecting an attack, especially such a bad one. That seems to mean that a battle is not what their opponent is looking form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game at Sea

“Sherlock!” Azure eyes shot open as Watson shouted through the wooden doors of his cabin. Judging by the urgency in his tone it was not the first time. Watson was never that urgent, something must be—

The ship shuddered, more than the seas could manage on their own. He flung himself off his hammock, reserved for deep navigational thinking, jumping over the maps scattered on a table. Another shake of the craft sent his cheek into the side of his cabin door. With a snarl he tugged it open, stepping out onto deck, scarf and curled hair flying out from a gust of wind.

Half the ship was cast in shadow, Sherlock’s small crew holding the ropes to the deep blue sails tight to stop the mast from wavering. She wasn’t the newest ship, a previously used member of the Brittanian fleet. She wasn’t the largest either, but as much as Sherlock adored the monstrous heavily-endowed ships of the seas, he valued a small and intimate space.

His crew was also small because even pirates didn’t want to be under his employ.

Another rattle of the old wood nearly sent his gangly form off balance. Watson was at his side instantly, the unassuming first mate keen to his captain’s location at all times.

“We aren’t scheduled for a storm, Watson. This is a warning.”

“Of course it is, Sherlock! We’ve had three cannons land next to the ship.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered in interest. “Who shoots us to miss three times?”

“A sharpshooter that isn’t trying to hit us. Tie up the sails, drop anchor.”

“Sherlock!”

“Now, Watson!” Sherlock turned, his sea-salt coat furling as he headed up the stairs to the wheel. “Move, Stamford. Help them.” He practically pushed the stout man away from his post, hanging onto the wheel himself. He turned again, looking out past the stern. He was unsurprised to see a ship’s form in the distance. Sharpshooter indeed, he only knew one of those in all the seas. He held the wheel firm and watched as the silhouette steadily grew closer, his own sails being tied up to the mast. His eyes slid shut as he felt the creaks of the anchor being lowered. The seas were calmed, no shots fired. Footsteps up the stairs let him open his eyes, though he knew who was approaching.

“You’re insane,” Watson growled, formal as ever. “You know who’s shooting at us.”

“If he wanted the ship sunk I would have slept through her funeral. A good captain goes down with his ship, not drowns with her while smothered in a hammock.” Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. He felt rather than saw the scowl his first mate directed at him. “He wants an audience. Genius often does.”

“Genius, sure. You’re gonna let that mad man on the hull because he asked nicely.” Watson spat. “Should I write some poetry for him, perhaps get some fish bones in a bouquet?”

“Inventive. You’re starting to think out of the box now, John.” Sherlock shot him a grin.

“If that…if he tries anything again I swear, Sherlock—”

“You’ll jump overboard? You tried once, drowning isn’t an honorable death for a former soldier.” He turned to face his mate, er, first mate, and the slight quirk of his lip vanished at the expression he wore. Cold, stern, and an emotion Watson never showed outwardly, except for once. “Watson, I would not let them get anywhere near if I felt we were in danger.” A scoff followed his comment. “They’re dangerous of course, but stay with the crew and we can avoid another injury.” Sherlock’s eyes moved to his mate’s shoulder. Watson shifted his weight under the gaze before turning, returning to the main deck. With a sigh, Sherlock followed, waiting.

 

The plank dropped down on top of their own, making a bridge between the two vessels. It was more like a ramp, given the immensity of  _The Magpie,_ its cannons on level with the topside of Sherlock’s unnamed nautical. Dramatic silence followed, Sherlock poised near the mast and waiting, expectantly, for the theatrics.

“Ahoy, captain!” His lips twitched as the head of the enemy vessel appeared over the side of the ship. “Mind if I drop in?”

“If I minded you’d have wasted further cannons.” Sherlock retorted, as the man swung over the side and walked down the ramp. Even on the rickety and not-to-be-trusted platforms he had a bounce in his gait, as if riding the waves. He jumped down onto the deck, scuffing the bottom of his boots over the wooden floors. He looked up, shorter and not as imposing as Captain Holmes, though his eyes were deeper than the oceans, and blacker.

“Right you are. Tea?” His smile was unnaturally bright where his eyes were dark, his hair colored like ink and slick from salt water. Sherlock turned and walked back towards his cabin, aware but unobservant of the obscene gestures the young captain made to his crew. Watson glowered from his post by the cabin door, yanking it open and letting it hit Captain Moriarty on the backside as the two were alone.  “Feisty, that one. Still sore over that last spat?” Sherlock didn’t answer, crossing his chambers to get the set of china that hadn’t broken from the chopping waters. “He’d be less sore if he didn’t cross my Moran. He’d be able to steer a ship as well, wouldn’t he? Not the spry young thing you picked up so long ago, eh?”

“This is not the matter you wanted to discuss, James.” Sherlock said gravely and took pride in the smile dropping from the other captain’s face. James, such a simple name for a simple farm lad turned pirate. Simple, everything he wasn’t; everything he hated and what he despised being called. He’d wanted a cape and to be called king of his own ship, really.

“Bugger, what a sour boy you are. Did I wake you?” Sherlock made no move to acknowledge it, but the smile returned. “I see, can’t say I’m sorry.” The short captain dropped down into an acquired armchair, sprawling out in it. “But you’re right, always right.” Sherlock didn’t mention he was out of hot water, forgetting to still it while he fell asleep no doubt for a day or two. He stood opposite the armchair as Moriarty arched off his seat, making a show of himself as he dug around his extravagant cloak. His eyebrows lifted as he tugged out a tube. Sherlock locked eyes on it, trying to see through the safe casing.

“A map.”

“Naturally,” Moriarty grumbled, sounding disappointed in the observation. He crossed his legs and twirled the tube, watching as Sherlock’s eyes followed. “Go on, I see you thinking. Deduce.”

“A game.”

“A  _game.”_ Moriarty hummed, leaning his head back onto the arm of Sherlock’s chair. “Of course it is. Have you told the other plebs about these? I think they’re so clever after all. I love showing off.”Of course he didn’t tell the crew. His treasure hunts were private things between the two captains. He held out a hand to take the tube, Moriarty tilting it back out of his grasp. “I don’t get ignored,  _Captain.”_

“This is my ship, I request the gift you intended to offer.”

“Your dinghy, perhaps.” His head oscillated, but he dropped the tube in Sherlock’s hand. He snatched it and opened the compartment, unrolling it. “Look at you, all excited. I should visit more often.”

“An X marks the spot, how ordinary.” Sherlock drawled, watching the creases in the young man’s forehead become more prominent.

“I’ve spent a long time doing this for you, my dear. Enjoy it, while you can. Something big is coming.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Naw…” The captain swung his legs, standing in a fluid motion with the utmost poise. He paced in front of Sherlock, peeking down the edges of the parchment. “A warning.”

“Your flags are a warning label enough. I’d say I was impressed but the armada couldn’t catch a barrel floating in the Thames.” Moriarty chuckled, showing his teeth in a feral grin.

“Soon, dear, don’t spoil the surprise. Just play along while it’s still fun.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed? I intend to find another empty chest on this island regardless how many savages we slay.” Sherlock recalled the last venture that threw him into a fit. He wondered if Watson knew all along what led to what the others called a wild goose chase.

“It’s a race,” Moriarty whispered, eyes scanning the room as if they’d be overheard. He leaned forward, encroaching on the captain’s space. “A race, Sherly. I gave Lestrade and Donovan maps too, discreetly I tell you. But guess what’s marked on theirs?” His clammy hands slid up Sherlock’s arms until it pointed to a space marked as the sea. Sherlock’s pupils dilated, probably changing to match the sea green oils covering the drawn map.

“The ship.”

“The dinghy,” Moriarty sang. “Well, it starts here. But I’m leaving them little clues. You follow my map, they follow you following my map.”

“Simple, I don’t follow the map.” Sherlock rolled it up, batting away James’s fingers.

“Would you, Sherly? Would you throw away my little gift because the big dogs came to play?” Moriarty tugged on his scarf, a prize from one of their first games. Sentiment, but signature, and an expensive spoil of Spain. “Even you said they couldn’t catch a barrel in the Thames.”  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, determined to not back away from the other captain and his wandering piano fingers. A pirate was never this graceful, and now he led the most feared ship. “Go on, darling. Show them how clever you are. Outrun them, blow out your sails and inflate that gorgeous ego and take the prize I’m handing you. I  _promise_ it’ll be worth it.”

“It’s a trap. The mark on this map will give me a map to another location. At the end will be a prize and a fleet behind me.”

“Consider it a little bit of sport.” With a pat on his shoulders, Moriarty stepped back. “I’ll be watching! At a distance, naturally. But I do love your tiny little mice scurrying on deck in panic. Normal people, hardly good for anything.”

“I refuse.” Sherlock scowled, pushing the map back into its tube.

“Mm…no you don’t.” Moriarty’s grin turned devilish, a mockery of what Davy Jones would look like as a man. “I best be off. Do think about it. You can run, or you can see what I left for you. I’ll be heartbroken if you don’t love it. I know you loved my others.” His eyes scanned the room, antiques littered around. Cases of rare birds, precious texts, gold and other wares worth thousands of pounds even to the richest of men. Sherlock would deny until he sank that he took pride in his greedy spoils. It wasn’t up to question, it’d be stupid to ask. He was a pirate, son of a dignitary and sought out by his own family for treason to the monarchy. And now a pirate conspiring with the deadliest of their kind, playing his games, thought an accomplice to the feared  _Magpie_ and her captain.

“Think about it,” Sherlock vaulted back into the present as lips were just by his ear, the captain on the tips of his toes. He sank down to his natural height, straightening the collar of his coat and brim of his hat as he spun on a heel. He made his way out of the cabin, shanty sung out past Watson and the crew of an unnamed vessel.

 _“Farewell an’ adieu to you fair Spanish ladies,_ __  
Farewell an’ adieu to you ladies of Spain,  
For we’ve received orders for to sail for old England,  
An’ hope very shortly to see you again.”

Sherlock remained in his cabin, tube tight in his fingers until he felt the boat rock as the larger vessel sailed away. It went silent for minutes. With a breath he stepped to his counter, throwing off the maps of the land to lay out his new one, charting a course. His fingers adjusted the scarf over his neck, tugging the sheet of parchment the captain had left for him there.

_The Reichenbach_

His chart came quickly, the promise of a ship from the maestro of the  _Magpie_  swimming in his mind. 


End file.
